Page 13 of Return to Sender
“Interesting,” Dominique says, her eyes lighting up with predatory curiosity. “Non-essential materials. That sounds like exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Those storage compartments contain sensitive diplomatic—”
“AXIS just said they’re non-essential,” she interrupts, already moving toward the indicated panel. “Which means they’re personal. Your secret stash, Agent Perfect.”
“I do not maintain a ‘stash’ of any kind,” I protest, but she’s already activating the storage compartment. The panel slides open to reveal...
“Oh my stars,” Dominique breathes, her expression shifting from mischief to genuine surprise. “Wi’kar, are these... poetry books?”
I feel heat rise in my facial regions—an entirely involuntary physiological response. “They are... literature. For educational purposes.”
She extracts one of the slim volumes, her movements suddenly gentle, almost reverent. “These aren’t just poetry books. These are rare, first-edition collections.” She examines the cover carefully. “This is Stellar Harmonies by Lyria of Andramach. This collection was banned by the Corsairian Cultural Council for being too emotionally provocative.”
“It is valuable from a historical perspective,” I state stiffly.
“And this one...” She selects another volume, and I notice how her fingers handle the ancient binding with practiced care. “Wi’kar, this is Songs of the Void by Teela Silver. She only published three hundred copies before the war scattered her people across the galaxy.”
I remain silent, watching her examine my collection with obvious knowledge and appreciation.
“You have first-edition works here from a dozen different systems,” she continues, her voice filled with something approaching awe. “Some of these must be worth more than your entire ship.”
“Monetary value is not the relevant consideration,” I manage.
She looks up at me, and there’s something different in her expression now—not mockery or amusement, but genuine curiosity tinged with... respect?
“You read poetry,” she says, as if testing the words. “Emotional, banned, romantically provocative poetry.”
“I appreciate literary craftsmanship,” I correct, though my voice lacks its usual conviction.
“This collection represents years of acquisition. Probably decades.” She selects another volume, opening it carefully. “Some of these pages are hand-illuminated. The dedication in this one is written in actual ink, not digital print.”
I watch her handle my books—my books, not regulation manuals or technical references, but the works I’ve collected across countless systems during my courier runs. Pieces of beauty and emotion that I’ve never shown to another living being.
“Why poetry?” she asks softly.
The question should be simple to deflect, but something about the way she’s holding the ancient volume, the genuine interest in her voice, dismantles my usual defenses.
“It is...” I pause, searching for words that feel inadequate. “In diplomatic work, every communication is calculated, measured, designed to convey specific information without emotional content. Poetry is... the opposite of that. Pure emotion given form.”
She nods slowly, understanding flickering in her amber eyes. “You collect feelings.”
The assessment is so accurate it creates a resonance in my chest cavity that borders on painful. “That is not how I would characterize—”
“Read me something,” she interrupts, settling into the co-pilot’s chair with one of the volumes in her lap.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Read me something. From your secret collection of feelings.” Her smile is soft, encouraging, entirely different from her usual sharp-edged humor. “Please?”
The request is so unexpected, so intimate, that my scent glands release something warm and cedar-like that makes her eyes widen slightly.
“I do not read aloud,” I state, though even as I say it, I’m aware of how hollow the protest sounds.
“You do now,” she says, extending the book toward me. “Consider it part of your diplomatic duties. Cultural exchange between bonded consorts.”
I take the volume from her hands, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact sends the now-familiar cascade of sensation through my nervous system, but this time it’s accompanied by something else—a strange sense of sharing, of trust offered and tentatively accepted.
The book falls open to a page I know well, marked by years of re-reading. The poem is written in the flowing script of Lyria’s native tongue, with a translation beneath in Standard Galactic.
